Nightmares
by foreverszpilfeld
Summary: There are nights in this world where everyone dreams of a little fear, whether that fear is guilt, anger, or desolation. It is those nights where Wladek lies awake, silently praying that one day it will pass.


AN: This my first Szpilfeld fanfic that I've ever written. Writing fanfiction with this ship comes with great caution. I only post stories that contain fluff, and whatever else I can come up with. There will be no erotica in my fanfictions because I have to keep reminding myself that these were real people in reality. To write something with that extreme would cause tension and awkwardness within myself. Thus, tonight is a short story, and it isn't a very happy/bright one. I will do the best I can, and I hope you enjoy reading.

The leaves were restless outside the window, and the scent of rain filled the atmosphere. It had been just a few years before the failure of his mission: to bring back the officer that saved his life. Wladyslaw Szpilman, a pianist who soon would have his name written in the list of the greatest music composers in all of Poland, tossed and turned within his bed. The image of the empty campsite plagued his mind, and the burden was pressed upon him once more. It was a melancholy feeling to remember the coat and stasi hat upon the piano, and the man who sat in the old chair.

Please, dear Lord, rid me of these thoughts. Allow me sleep just this once, he thought. However, as the moon rose higher behind the hidden clouds, his own mind beat himself up even more than before.

"You could have been there for him! He was there for you and you were too late! If you had just arrived at least an hour earlier, these nights wouldn't have been pressed upon you," Remorse cried.

"No. You did everything you could. You searched far and wide, spoke with his family, and confronted members that were tied with the military. There was nothing else you could do," Compassion retorted.

His children no longer have a father. His wife is now a widow. If you had just asked for his name - his name! In the name of God, that's all it would have took to find him, he accused himself.

"You weren't there!"

"You could have been!"

"You were never there."

Tears were shed that painful night among the sheets. A cry was caught in his throat, and Szpilman had never felt such a war within himself than ever before. He was angry, guilty, burdened, and above all, mournful. Finally, at 4 AM, sleep came his way. Yet, it didn't last long. His nightmare come with visions, such as the empty spot on the ground where the walls would have been, the piano in the dusty room with the coat and the hat, the man sitting in the chair, and the piece he played for him. He sees himself pressing the keys with his pale and bony fingers, but as the vision moves on, the sound dies out and is eventually silent.

He wakes up the next morning. Szpilman's eyes are bloodshot and weary. The loss of his family and his officer has taken the greatest toll on him even though the war is over. The sun beats through the window curtains and is blinding. He doesn't know how he is ever going to receive the comfort that he needs. The world was moving on - sure, it had its scars - but not the life of Szpilman. The Jewish man knows he has to get back to work and continue writing music, but the emotions keep adding up to a great effect. And for once, he cursed the existence of mankind - why it had to treat itself as a predator, and why it brought itself among evil at the most unexpected times. The world contained many enrapturing things, but how could something so beautiful be so dreadful?

It is a question that the pianist will ask himself every day. It took effort to get out of bed, put on his clothes and go to work each time the sun rose, and night made it even worse. Szpilman couldn't trust himself with his own thoughts. They betrayed him and made him feel even more alone. He sighed as he walked into the Polish studio, trying to put on the best smile he can as his coworkers greeted him. Although he does not notice, they are not oblivious of what had happened. They throw out topics. They try to distract him. Yet every word they say is barely captured by his mind. It is too lost, and Szpilman tries to push away the fog so that he can at least get through the day.

Every attempt fails. The pianist doesn't know when he will pull himself out of this dismal crater. He tries to listen to what his fingers produce upon the keys, but he can only feel a thumping within his arms. It spreads throughout his legs, his hands, and his chest. It deafens his mind, and soon he doesn't even hear the accents he places upon separate notes. It is a constant pounding that reminds himself of what the family he lost would expect him to keep up at. Even the anonymous officer appeared whenever Szpilman thought of the word "family". They are all there, and they are pushing him to keep going, to keep moving on even though they were cut off. They hear it just as much as he does.

It is the sound of his beating heart.


End file.
